


bloom, then erode

by glory_box



Series: valley of the shadow [2]
Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Bestiality, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dirty Talk, F/M, Mutilation, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Violence, Uterine Prolapse, Verbal Humiliation, Vomiting, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 20:38:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19363762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glory_box/pseuds/glory_box
Summary: "Please... d-don't hurt me again," she begs."Why not, sweetheart?" the Clown asks simply. "Gimme one good reason."





	bloom, then erode

**Author's Note:**

> Part two of [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18218930). Read the tags. This one is even more ugly than the first one.
> 
> I swear I actually love Kate, even if my writing doesn't make it seem that way.

Kate's been more sleepless than ever since the incident (she can't bring herself to call it anything more than that, the _incident_ ) on the Crotus Prenn Asylum grounds. She begins to panic in every trial that she's put through, until she learns that the killer isn't the Clown, after all, and it's only then that she can breathe again. What little sleep she _does_ manage is frequently interrupted by twisted recollections of what happened to her, each one more warped than the last, stretched out by the effects of the intoxication on her memory.

She stops agreeing to go out scavenging with the others, afraid that she'll end up alone again, or that he'll somehow be waiting for her just beyond the trees. His violation had gone far beyond her body and breached her mind. Every waking moment is tainted by the fear that she'll encounter him again. The worst part is that she knows she inevitably will. It's just a matter of _when._

So when Kate eventually finds herself at the gates of the travelling circus, her first instinct is not to flee or fight but freeze in the presence of what feels like her own personal nightmare. She stands there, every limb gone stiff, still before the bright red arch that's twisted downward like a huge gory frown. The lights blinking on and off strung around the tents swell nauseatingly before her, making her eyes water.

Her body gradually comes to awareness again, out of nowhere, and she's able to move once more. Kate can hear someone running by — was that David? — but she's barely looking at her surroundings. She's running on instinct as she sets off at a sprint towards the chapel, and the moment she gets inside and has her bearings, her eyes fall upon a locker.

Kate hesitates for a beat, but then she pulls the door open to climb inside. In the darkness, she attempts to collect herself, but she's shaking, her hands twisted desperately on the handle on her side of the door even though there's no sign of _him_ , yet.

But then, as she listens, his heartbeat comes into her ears— and then, shortly after, that great, terrible laugh. She can hear a woman's shout; it sounds like Meg. She knows that she should get out of the locker and head over to help. She's typically good at intervening in tricky situations, catching the killer's attention just long enough for an ally to get away. But she can't make herself get out of the locker and take action. She's nailed down right where she is, sucking in increasingly hysterical breaths.

The heartbeats are drawn away, but Kate remains in the locker as the first generator is brought up, and then another. She hates herself, then, realizing just how _afraid_ she is in that moment, and how very unlike her it is. 

Kate's never really been afraid of the nightmare before. Sure, she's struggled with the questions everybody's asked themselves, but she'd always been an optimist about her situation. Always. From early on, she'd seen it as her lot in life to bring hope to others, and she wanted to do that through her songwriting. Hope for the future had always carried her through life before, and to great success. 

Now, though... _Now_ , Kate is afraid, and the fear is blinding her. She still can't move; there's no way she can make herself get out to help her teammates or work on generators or do anything but stay right where she is, cowering, hoping selfishly that she might be able to get out of the trial completely unnoticed.

Around the completion of the third generator, Kate hears a disruption in the distance, outside of the chapel walls; the Entity has come to collect two of the other survivors. Her expectations sink quickly when she realizes that the remaining person is on a hook. She can hear the cries of pain, the struggle. Can almost feel the desperation for someone to come along to save them, and the confusion when nobody does.

Kate waits it out. When she is certain that the sacrifice has been completed, she forces herself to get out of the locker. She's so afraid that she falls to her knees at first, right there on the dusty floor, and she chokes back a little sob, telling herself to get it together. She's good at getting around the realms, usually, and she's pretty stealthy when she tries to be. 

She just needs to find the hatch. That's all. Just the hatch.

Kate listens at the entrance of the ruins and looks around for any sign of the familiar pink cloud, but she sees nothing in the distance, or floating up into the sky. She slips outside and begins a circuit around the grounds, trying to hear for the haunting echo of the black lock. 

There is no result on her side of the grounds, although Kate treads through it twice, leading her to realize that the hatch must be on the other side of the map— and so is _he._

The search brings Kate back to the circus grounds. Of _course_ it does. She goes mannequin-still by a heap of scrap, too afraid to approach it. The crows had followed her around for a while, crying out at her, but they'd flown off, leaving only the nostalgic music being broadcast into the air.

And then she hears it. The heartbeat. Kate's own heart launches into a brand new panic, and she halts her steps behind one of the tents. It sounds close. She agonizes there, wondering what to do. As it gets closer, she hears heavy footfalls, and she becomes too afraid to think straight. There is a locker right next to her, though, and, holding her breath, she slips inside as quietly as she can. 

The approaching footsteps pause. She can hear the clinking of glass— and then a violent cough.

Breathless, she slumps inside the locker, feeling a surge of something immediate and hot in her underwear that quickly soaks through to the denim. Kate stifles a cry and presses a hand to the crotch of her shorts, astonished and horrified. It's not a reaction she's ever had before, even though she's been put through her fair share of terrible experiences in the Entity's realm. This is a completely different kind of fear. It's primal.

The Clown is coming closer again. Closer and closer, his raspy wheeze growing in volume. 

Kate squeezes her eyes shut, praying. Her throat's got a knot in it; she wants to start crying. 

When she opens her eyes, she sees that the view through the vents has changed. 

"Peekaboo," says the Clown. He's standing right in front of the locker.

He reaches out and rips it open with relish, a movement so sudden and forceful it nearly tears the door from the hinges. When he gets a good, clear look at her shrinking away from him in there, he grins and huffs out a pleased laugh. Kate sees genuine joy in his smile. 

He's got an unusual costume on today. It's not the regal jacket with the epaulettes she's used to seeing. He looks more like a street performer, donning a filthy long-sleeved button up shirt and polka dot pants with striped socks. He's got a bowler cap on his bald head and an enormous, toothy grin painted on his face that curls up at the sides. 

And black around the eyes, so black that she can't even find his gaze.

"I was wondering when I'd see ya again," the Clown coos, and his engine-motor voice goes over about as well as salt in an open wound. "Kept lookin' around for that pretty face..." His hand reaches out for her and settles on her bare midriff, his rough palm stroking down the curve of her waist and fingertips then trailing down the slope of her hip. "What're you all dressed up for?

Kate's paralyzed by terror, looking up at him with wide, wet eyes. The nights have been hot and humid, so she's got a semi-sheer top on— it's printed with an American flag design, stretched across her breasts and knotted beneath them. Her abdomen is mostly exposed, and she hates the ravenous, appreciative way the Clown is looking her over, sizing her up, his gaze lingering on her breasts and then flicking down her flat stomach before settling, smugly, at her crotch and wet thighs.

The Clown leans in, and Kate presses herself to the back of the locker, but there's nowhere to go. His hand reaches to slip between her thighs, and he runs a thumb down the tight seam of her shorts, wet fabric and all, letting her feel the pressure of his fingertips. Even that, through two layers of fabric, is enough to make her want to throw up. 

"Did I scare ya?" he asks her, his eyes never leaving her face even as his blunt fingertips try to rouse some kind of reaction from her, stroking firmly against her crotch. The fabric is drawn almost painfully tight into her labia. "But we've barely _started._ "

Kate lets out a sob, despite herself, and shakes her head. What's he going to do to her this time? She doesn't want it to be like the last time, but she doesn't want something _worse_ to happen, either. The Clown seems to detect her distress, and he laughs raucously before he reaches in to pull her out of the locker, his enormous hand bone-crushingly tight around her forearm. Kate immediately begins kicking and screaming, but she might as well be a rag doll, because he hauls her onto his shoulder like it's barely an effort for him.

" _No!_ " Kate screams, agonized. Her cries send crows flying into the air, but, of course, there is no one left to answer her. There's just dead air. The other survivors are gone, the gates aren't open, she doesn't know where the hatch is, and now the Clown has her. Again.

She beats her fists into his back and tries to rake her nails into his shirt. She's kicking as hard as she can with her muscular legs, but he doesn't even stagger. As if to mock her efforts, his hand slides up the back of her thigh to grope at her ass, even as she thrashes against him, trying to break free.

Kate realizes that the Clown is taking her back to his stagecoach. Just the sight of the place brings back vivid, burning recollections of him assaulting her in there, how he'd fucked her, _raped_ her so hard and for so long that it felt like he'd broken her in two, and dying had been a welcome blessing. "No, no, don't, _no—_ " she begins pleading. It takes her a few seconds to realize that she's even saying the words out loud.

The Clown ducks low to step inside of the caravan, and once he does, he pulls her off of his shoulder and drops her to the floor. It's more like he throws her, making her land hard on her hip. Kate gasps in pain as he crouches down in front of her and reaches out to grab her by the hair. He pushes her onto her front and grinds her face into the floorboards as she screams and tries to pull her head away. 

"Listen," he says to her. She feels his weight shift above her, and then his stomach pressing into her back as he leans in to whisper against her ear. "It's gonna happen. Okay? It's gonna happen, but lucky for you, it won't last forever. So try to look on the bright side." His great mass squeezes the air right out of her chest, and she goes still, trying to conserve her breath. 

"No," she manages to choke. It's important, getting that word out, even if he won't heed it. _No._

The Clown only laughs. The sound seems to shake the entire stagecoach. Kate has a sickening sense of déjà vu. Everything that had happened to her seems to be playing out all over again. She tries to dig her knees into the floor to push herself up, but his weight on top of her is too much.

"Please... d-don't hurt me again," she begs.

"Why not, sweetheart?" the Clown asks simply. "Gimme one good reason."

Struck silent by fear, she only lies there. 

"You're probably wondering, _why me...?_ " he goes on. "I told ya last time. You're my _type._ " He leans in, and pulls her head up so that she's forced to confront every detail of his face and the greasepaint caked on it. What stands out most is the mirthful way the corners of the painted smile turn up.

Kate sniffs and shakes her head _no._ "Just kill me."

"Later," he says, like it's a lover's promise, before he reaches over to the work table for something.

She hears a rattling sound and the heavy clink of something metallic. When the Clown's massive hands reach down for her throat, she panics and convulses, trying to wiggle away. Something cold and smooth closes around her neck. She tries to work an arm under her body so that she can reach up to feel it for what it is, before her head suddenly snaps back, hard. She chokes and gags as her neck is pulled back, forcing her to look up at the ceiling and at the Clown's looming face above her.

_A chain,_ she realizes. The thing around her neck is some kind of collar, sitting heavy on her shoulders. He's got the slack end of it wrapped around the hand that's forcing her head back. It's pressing into her trachea, making it hard to breathe.

"On your knees," says the Clown. He gets to his feet, causing the stagecoach to shift its balance again. When Kate doesn't immediately comply, remaining on the floor in a state of disbelief, he gives the chain a hard yank. 

Kate tries protesting, "Stop—" but it's difficult to get the words out. The collar is tight, and when he pulls on the chain, it seems to get tighter. Her bruised hip throbs as she shakily gets to her knees. The urine staining her shorts has turned cold and uncomfortable against her skin as she kneels there beneath him, trying to keep her face from breaking into a sob.

"Get up," says the Clown, more forcefully. The tip of his boots press into her knees. He gives the chain another pull, indicating that he doesn't want her resting on her haunches. She sits up stiffly, and she isn't surprised when she next sees his hand reach for the button on his pants. It's only to demonstrate, though, because then he reaches out for her hair to pull her in close, bringing the tip of her nose against his crotch. 

She knows what he wants her to do, but her hands stay in her lap, futilely delaying the inevitable. The only thing she can do is try not to fall apart the way she did last time. But it's hard, knowing that it will only get worse from here.

"Go on," says the Clown. He's wrapped the chain another few inches around his hand, pulling the collar snugly around her neck. Kate lifts her trembling hands to reach beneath his overhanging stomach to undo the buttons on his polka-dotted pants one by one. When she draws the closure loose, his cock slips out, all purplish and wrinkled. It hangs there heavily, smelling of sweat and piss and things Kate doesn't really want to think about.

Kate closes one hand around the shaft, right below the head. She can't touch her thumb and forefinger around it. She gives the organ a squeeze, feeling the spongy resistance beneath his generous foreskin. When she brings her other hand down to the base to help, trying to gather and pull it back so that she can pop the head out and get the whole act over with, she decides that she doesn't want to look any more, so she closes her eyes.

Shutting her eyes sharpens her other senses in the worst way. The intense reek on him. The feeling of him in her hands, dense and warm. His rattling inhales and heavy exhales are really the only thing she can hear, aside from the squish and slide of her hands working his cock and trying to provoke it to firm up. It comes to life in her palms easily, although she doesn't think it's because of her half-hearted stroking. When the head is exposed, she rubs a finger over the tip, finding sticky precum there.

Suddenly, he sighs. Kate's eyes open just a crack. His fingers twist into her hair, and she cries out, "What are you— stop!"

"You're not really tryin', are you?" he asks her. The tone he uses is something like disappointment. "It's always like this. I've gotta do everything myself." 

His hand slides from her hair down to her jaw, and then his fingers dig into her cheeks _hard_ , forcing her mouth open like she's an animal that needs its teeth checked. His grip is incredibly painful, pushing right into the tendons, and her eyes begin to water. "Nnnnh—" she manages. _No._

The head of his cock flattens her tongue to the bottom of her mouth. He tastes sour, sharp. Kate tries to take a deep breath through her nostrils, anticipating his next move. His cock is just as wide as she remembers, and it strains her jaw to its absolute limit. She knows it's important that she relaxes her muscles, but with the amount of fear and stress she's feeling, she doesn't think she _can_.

"Do you wanna hear a joke?"

The question is unexpected, and she begins to feel a little faint as she turns it over in her head. She can't answer; he's slowly moving his hips, rubbing his cock slit against her tongue, his grip moving back to her hair now that he seems to be satisfied that Kate won't try to move away.

The idea of biting or otherwise trying to injure him doesn't even enter her mind. She knows what will happen if she complies; she doesn't know what will happen if she _doesn't_.

"So, there's this man," the Clown begins, as though she'd said _yes._ He pushes his hips forward, his dick sliding just past her back teeth. Kate suppresses her gag reflex, mostly successfully. "He wakes up one morning with a really stiff neck."

The Clown pulls at her hair by the roots, making Kate gurgle incoherently just as he hauls her head towards himself, forcing her to take more of his length into her mouth. She's not ready for it; his cockhead hits the back of her throat and then some, and she's quickly running out of breath, between the collar and the bulk in her mouth.

"He gets out of bed. Goes to the bathroom, same as every day." The Clown's void-deep gaze deigns to her. Kate can feel saliva beginning to pool beneath her tongue. He begins using her head more than his hips, his grip on her hair and the collar controlling her movements. She's barely listening, trying not to gag as his cock thuds repeatedly against her throat.

"He looks in the mirror. Guy's shocked at what he sees. His face is white as a sheet." 

The Clown pauses there to catch his breath, groaning a little. His dick has gone fully hard in Kate's mouth, throbbing insistently. The vulgar taste of him only seems to spread with the saliva flooding her mouth and starting to run down her chin. Her tenuous composure is close to cracking.

"His nose and mouth had turned red and were three times their size." He begins thrusting his hips with intent now, fucking into her mouth and ignoring Kate's subsequent gagging. The Clown's begun panting. It's an awful sound coming from those smoker's lungs. "His hair was bright red and fuzzy... and there was this little hat on top of his head."

Kate's throat contracts violently at a particularly hard buck of the Clown's hips, one that brings his fat testicles firm against her chin, and her stomach lurches. She tries to scream, but it stays in her chest, so she presses her hands into his muscular thighs, trying to pound her fists into him hard enough that he'll feel it and notice what she's trying to tell him.

"So the guy goes to a doctor. Asks what's wrong with him." These words escape with difficulty, broken up by indulgent moans. Kate's gag reflex can no longer handle it, although she's still trying desperately to dig her nails into his thighs. "Doctor takes a look at him, and says—"

Vomit surges up her esophagus and throat and into her mouth. It has barely anywhere to go — his cock is taking up every square inch of her mouth — and so it splatters disgustingly out where it can, dripping onto her lap and the floor and on his pants. She can even feel it coming up hot into her nostrils, and she tries to scream again, cry out or protest or sob or just _anything._

"Oh, for fuck's sake," the Clown snarls in irritation. He doesn't seem revolted so much as angry. He's stepped back, tugging his still-hard cock free of her mouth. Kate immediately begins coughing, doubling over with a hand pressed to her stomach. She spits a mouthful of pre-cum and saliva and bile onto the floor. A tear of exertion drips off of her jaw to join the mess. "No punchline for you. Sorry, sweetheart."

The Clown reaches over for a rag, which he uses to wipe himself off. He's still got a tight grip on the chain, looking at her as though reassessing his intentions, before he tucks his cock back into his pants. Kate knows better than to think that bodes well for her, though.

She's just barely caught her breath when the Clown draws the chain tight and begins walking out of the stagecoach. He takes her with him, and because Kate isn't ready to move, he ends up dragging her bodily. She struggles and chokes against the collar, trying to get to her feet, as he pulls her roughly out and down the stairs. "Wait—" she tries to plead as he pulls her out onto the grass. 

Beyond the music, Kate can now hear a sort of snuffling sound, and the leaden beats of hooves on earth as he brings her around the side of the caravan. 

The horse. _His_ horse, she can only assume, because she's only ever seen it here, at the circus. She's always tried to give it a wide berth, not knowing if it could be trusted or not. The other survivors had never reported it behaving aggressively, but Kate's never been willing to chance it, even though she loves animals.

Kate doesn't know how to comprehend the sight before her. The horse — blood and gore dripping from its head and all — is tethered to the front of the caravan. It's the first time she's ever seen the creature standing up, and it's much larger than she thought it would be. The slim, strong legs seem sure-footed on the ground, despite the rot overtaking the flesh and bone.

The horse isn't returning the attention; it's just gazing, idly, into the smoky purple sky, with all three of its eyes.

The Clown crosses over to the front of the caravan, where the horse is leashed, and he begins looping the end of the chain around the frame next to it. Kate still doesn't understand. Not yet.

He catches the expression on her face and looks at her with satisfaction. 

"I'd drug you up like before," he says, as if providing a helpful explanation, "but I don't wanna get none of that in Maurice's system." He reaches out and gives the flank of the horse a fond pat. It swings its massive head around to look at the Clown balefully. "I'll do it when he's done with ya," he adds, cheerfully. 

Kate doesn't want to know what that means. Doesn't want to know what any of it means.

The knife comes out, and Kate shrinks away, afraid. She's between him and the horse now, her personal bubble limited to no more than a few feet. Stepping in either direction would bring her closer to one or the other. She wonders, for one wild moment, if he is going to feed her to the animal.

"What are you going to do?" she whispers. Her throat is sore from the brutal ordeal he'd just put her through.

"Patience. I run the show here, not you." The Clown approaches her and flips the blade around in her face, and when she winces and whines in the back of her throat, he seems to savor the moment. The knife lingers in the air just an inch from her lips, before he turns it downwards with an elegant dance of his fingers. He uses it to catch her shirt and split it. The flimsy fabric goes easily, tearing down to where it knots at her navel, and exposes her breasts, smooth and unmarred from her most recent revival. "Take 'em off." He uses the knife to gesture at her shorts.

Kate stares at the knife, and then up at his face. She reaches to begin undoing her shorts. Behind her, the horse snorts and shifts its hooves. She tugs them down her hips ungracefully, and they drop to her ankles. She pulls her underwear down with them, because she suspects that he won't find it cute if she doesn't.

It's humid in the nighttime air, but she shivers as she stands before him, nude, her arms lifting to fold over her chest.

The Clown motions with the knife again. This time, it's at the animal. Maurice, or whatever he called it. "D'you like horses?" he asks. 

The non sequitur brings her to a standstill, but eventually, numbly, Kate nods. Sure. She's always loved horses. Their grace and their freedom. She'd _had_ a horse, in the real world. Daisy. She used to come back to the stable whenever she could, between tours on the road. She'd do all of her best songwriting when it was just her and Daisy racing up the mountain trails. Something about the wind on her face always seemed to expose the words in her soul.

"What's that?" He tugs the chain.

"Yes," Kate says aloud, through clenched teeth. "I like horses."

"So be good to him," the Clown says, darkly, and he just stands there, the knife at the ready, staring at her.

Kate looks at the horse, then at the Clown. It doesn't take much thinking to know what he wants her to do. With his _horse._ If it's even a horse. It looks like something a messenger of the apocalypse might ride— every scabby, peeling inch of him.

She wants to laugh. She almost does. She can't believe what's happening to her. It's practically an out-of-body experience, surreal and absurd.

But it's all very, very real. When Kate doesn't react fast enough, the Clown gives her some violent incentive, kicking out with one strong leg to plant the bottom of his boot against her thigh. He kicks her hard enough that she falls onto her back, right at the feet of the horse. Kate cries out in pain and curls up onto her side, clutching at her ribs and trying to breathe through a sudden, stabbing pain.

"Get up," says the Clown.

Kate grabs two handfuls of grass and pushes herself up onto her rear, with some effort. She shrinks away when he moves towards her again, and looks up. The underbelly of the horse is above her head. There's a large, raw, wet-looking wound that festers beneath its ribcage, crusted with dried blood. There's a smell of sickness to it, beyond the usual musky animal smell. 

When her eyes come to its genitals, she realizes, with some self-disgust, that — given the option — she'd much rather be pleasuring the horse than the Clown. The horse, at least, isn't going to force-feed her drugs, isn't going to fuck her with a bottle or choke her or cut her finger off or stab her to death. 

So the Clown is a sick fuck who wants to see her jack off a horse. It's disgusting, but it's not going to kill her. Maybe that's all he wants, this time. Maybe that'll be enough to satisfy him. Maybe. _Maybe._ Kate holds onto this desperate hope; she has nothing else.

Trying to ignore her nausea, Kate gingerly gets to her knees and reaches up between the animal's legs. It might be mutated, maybe even undead, but it's like any other horse in every respect, and the wrinkled sheath at the apex of the legs isn't hard to find. 

Kate has no idea how to even begin touching it. It's the texture and the _look_ of its skin that's starting to disgust her much more than the fact that it's an animal. The sheer rot supersedes the concern of committing such an extreme taboo. The noxious, sickly smell coming off of him almost reminds her of the Clown's tonic. She half expects the horse to shift and bite her or kick, but he only stands there placidly, even as she grasps for the loose skin to feel for the member contained inside.

Bracing herself and still shaking, Kate tries to get a grip on the phallus, giving it a squeeze through the sheath. Some kind of oily substance is rubbing off on her hands, coming from the horse's decaying, purple-grey skin. She tries to ignore it; it does make it easier, a little, to fondle the sheath and draw its penis out. She folds her hands around the extra skin and pushes it back, trying to expose the organ, wanting it all to be over with as fast as possible. It's a much greater task than trying to handle the Clown's cock.

Behind her, the Clown watches with a highly interested expression, the knife still turning playfully between his fingers. He's pulled out a cigarette at some point and has lit it, releasing big grey clouds of heady smoke with each puff and rattling cough. "It's almost like y'know what you're doing," he taunts her.

Kate tries to tune him out and concentrate. The prepuce is so thick that she has to let it bunch up against her closed hands so the head of the cock can pop out, but as soon as she manages that, the whole thing slides out, heavy and thick and absurdly long.

It's black and pink, all mottled and raw-looking, with a wide, flattened head. It doesn't look as afflicted as the rest of the horse, maybe because the organ is housed inside of its body most of the time, so she takes it in both hands — she has to, to get a grip — and begins stroking and squeezing. The foreskin is slippery, letting her grip slide, and the organ gets more swollen with each pump of her hands.

It's big and awkward enough in her grip that she doesn't know what to do with it, and she can feel the Clown gradually becoming restless, which makes her anxiety rise. She hears him moving away, for a moment, and she tries to sneak a look over her shoulder.

The Clown is holding a large wooden crate in his arms. He walks over to her and the horse, and Kate leans away, her hands going still on the horse's length. The animal — Maurice — has begun to stir to attention, shifting his hooves in the grass as if antsy while Kate holds his dense cock in her hands. 

"Here we go," says the Clown. He sets the crate down right next to her. "Get on it," he says as he turns towards the horse's head, reaching out for its reins. 

"What?" Her voice comes out so small that she's surprised he even hears it.

"He's a good boy," says the Clown, reaching up to pat the horse on its muzzle, right below the glowing orange eye. The pupil expands as the horse gazes at the Clown. "I owe him a reward. It's gonna be you."

He pulls hard on the chain, causing Kate to collapse forward onto the crate. The hard edge of it digs into her bruised ribs, making her whimper. She tries to move away, but the Clown pulls on the chain again, and so she stays there, bent over it miserably as he walks the horse over her body. He's so big that his stomach doesn't even brush her back.

"Don't," Kate tries, quickly beginning to fall apart. "Don't, _please,_ you can just— you can just fuck me again, okay?" Her voice grows higher and higher as her panic rises, and she feels the sting of tears at her eyes again. It's not just the injustice of it all. It's the _indignity._ Why this, too? On top of everything else? Kate cannot even come close to understanding what drives the man standing before her. It feels like cruelty for the sake of cruelty, like he's actively trying to rip away and destroy everything she is. " _Please_ —"

"I'm alright with waitin' my turn," says the Clown, as if he's obliging her, and he laughs, like he thinks he's clever. She feels something heavy bump against her ass. He's leaning over, and she realizes that he's giving the horse a literal hand. "Go on. Spread your legs."

Kate's legs are clamped tightly shut. She pulls her knees apart, slightly, and wishes the horse would just kick her in the head and put her out of her misery. 

The Clown's free hand presses into the base of her spine, making Kate heave and shift on top of the crate, deeply unhappy to cooperate. She pulls her hips up and spreads her legs. It wouldn't be unreasonable to cry right now — God knows he's given her enough reasons already — but the feeling of utter misery is turning her cold and numb.

She feels the flared head of the horse's cock seeking purchase down the crack of her ass, before settling right at her pussy. Kate _knows_ it won't fit. Just like she knows that the Clown is going to force it in there anyway.

The horse swings its head and brushes a hoof into the grass. Kate can just barely hear the Clown murmuring some kind of reassurance to it. She's reminded of the way people speak to small children, or baby animals. She hates that he's capable of assuming a tone like that. It makes the Clown sound far too close to _human_.

She can feel him guiding the engorged cock up between her labia and against her more or less dry cunt. She can feel some considerable pressure against her pubic bone, but the horse's genitals are so large that it doesn't even come close to breaching her, just butting up uselessly against her lips.

"This is gonna hurt," says the Clown, and then he starts laughing. It must be a joke that he hasn't let her in on, yet.

There is a sharp pain right between her legs, spearing upwards through her groin and stomach, and Kate screams. The Clown is forcing the cock inside of her, shoving it into an orifice that is far from ready for it. As tense and unwilling as he muscles are, the sheer pressure of the thing being pushed inside of her wins out. The pain is incredible; she buries her face, briefly, in her folded arms, trying not to black out.

The ensuing experience plays out like a hallucination. It's a bad dream. A waking nightmare. The Clown steps back once he seems satisfied that the horse (it has a name, _Maurice_ , he must have been the one to name it) has got its bearings. Kate loses herself to the pain, zoning out as it becomes a continuous ache. She tries to adapt to it and become a part of it. Just _endure._ She'd always been good at that. At bearing burdens. Usually others' over her own.

It feels like her internal organs are being pushed around inside of her abdomen with each painful thrust. Kate's muscles have yet to relax; her body is doing everything it can to resist the invasion, which just makes it that much more painful. She can feel it battering up against her cervix, and then she really _does_ black out.

When she comes to, it's because the horse is moving like it's agitated above her, and she feels something pumping into her. She writhes weakly against the crate. She can feel splinters beneath her fingernails, but the pain of that is actually welcome over the pain in her lower body.

The horse shudders. She hears its cum splashing out of her and splattering all over the grass, so much of it that it's almost like she's pissing herself. When she looks between her legs, she's disgusted and horrified to see that the semen is an inky, purple-black color. Her inner thighs are streaked in it, like someone's poured paint on her lap.

The horse pulls back with an unsettled sound, tugging its cock out of her entirely. A gush of runny fluid pours out of her as the seal is broken. Her entire body hurts. There's this horrible, to-the-bone ache in her cunt, especially.

But then there's this intense sort of _heat_ between her legs, too, more than the soreness, like her muscles have just... given out. Kate sucks in a sharp breath and realizes that something is _wrong_.

"Good boy," the Clown is purring lovingly as he strokes the beast's muzzle. Snuggling up to it as Kate tries, very carefully, to shift positions and roll onto her back. "Did ya like that? Papa's always looking out for you."

She pulls herself up on her elbows and slides a hand down between her legs. She's soaked with toxic-smelling cum, but more than that, when her fingers press to her crotch, she feels exactly what's wrong. Something's... _descended._ She can't bring herself to look at it, at the bright pink organ just hanging out of her. She tries to assess the damage by touch, but mostly she feels completely numb with pain down there.

The Clown finally turns to acknowledge her again, and it's only to give the chain a hard yank, forcing her to sit up straighter and look between her legs. There's a sense of disembodiment; it's difficult to believe that this awful sight is attached to her.

"What a fuckin' mess," groans the Clown, and he's looking at her in a way that incites panic, although he isn't doing anything but tethering the horse to another part of the stagecoach some paces away. "Guess I was wrong about how much you could handle." 

When the Clown walks back over to her, he leans in close over her on the crate. She catches a sharp whiff of his body odor again. He plants a hand on her chest, but not to grope at her— he just presses her down flat, on her back, and then he slides a hand between her legs. His grimy fingers feel for the gaping muscle, and he starts laughing again, that really full-hearted laugh. He applies some pressure, and something shifts as he pushes her muscles up into place, two of his fingers sinking into her. She's so sore that she can barely feel them; it's all just numbed, dull, unpleasant sensation.

"You're so loose. Bet I could fit my fist in here." 

_That_ gets her attention and pulls her out of her dissociative pain state. "No!" sobs Kate, terrified anew. She tries weakly to shift away. 

"You're right. I'd much rather fuck you," the Clown says calmly, and she feels him pull his fingers out. She chokes back a cry, which he immediately cuts short when he stuffs his fingers into her mouth, forcing her to taste the beast's semen that he'd just dug out of her cunt. It's thick in her mouth, and it tastes terrible, making her stomach heave as he continues talking. "I'm sure it won't hurt as much as the last time, sweetheart." He's undoing his pants with one hand. This time, it appears, he requires no assistance from her to become hard.

He bears over her with his weight, and Kate screams, " _Stop—_ " one more hopeless time. She's hyperventilating so hard she's starting to gag again. 

"I'm so fucking sick of your whining," he interrupts her, and a violent pain has her seeing stars. She realizes only after her eyes uncross and her vision steadies that he'd hit her in the head with his open hand. "Are you gonna calm down now?"

Kate closes her eyes. Bad enough that he'd made the horse do this to her; she'd hoped he'd just kill her after that. But now he's going to rape her again, too. How could she have ever convinced herself that he wouldn't? She'd been stupid for ever thinking otherwise, she realizes. Everything he's done to her has always come back to his own pleasure.

The head of his cock presses against the puffy red exposed part of her. It takes the Clown a few tries to actually start easing into her. Even though there's an incredible discomfort to having everything so thoroughly shifted around down there, it's even worse to have his dick pushing in on it, like he's trying to shove her cunt back inside of her.

Eventually, he slides in fully — she's still dripping wet from what just happened — and reaches out to get a good grip on her hips so that he can pull her flush against his body, her ass snug against his thighs as he rocks into her. 

Compared to the horse, the Clown feels almost pleasurable inside of her, but he's still bigger than she could ever really be used to, and she's in so much pain already. It's not like last time, when his potent tonics had made the sensations in her body impossible to ignore. This time, there's only agony.

"You'll learn to like me," says the Clown. She can't make out the words at first, because his voice is unsteady with effort and arousal as he rolls his hips against her, his enormous gut keeping her exactly where he needs her. "Everybody loves a clown."

He smiles at her, like it's some secret reference that they both understand, and one of his hands moves to caress her cheek. Kate stares, dead-eyed, back at him. She has flitted somewhere else in her mind, somewhere with more light. Somewhere she could be alone.

The Clown's touch moves down her neck, then over her breasts and down to the crook of her elbow. Eventually, he takes her hand in his. Recalling what had happened last time, Kate begins to weep, trying to pull her arm away, but he's holding it fast.

He slides her fingers into his mouth, suckling on them. He keeps her wrist locked tight at his chin, forcing her into a stiff, uncomfortable position, making her twist her torso to accommodate the way he's fucking into her. She can tell that he's close, by the way he's rutting against her.

It's almost over. It has to be.

His tongue is stroking up against her fingers, and she can feel the vibrations of the low moans coming from his mouth. Kate finds herself willing him to just _climax_ already, to just come and then do with her life as he will. She just has to endure a little longer. Just a little. It seems like he's about to reach his peak, and—

Kate screams so hard and loud her voice almost gives out then and there. The Clown has sunk his teeth into her fingers, the three of them in his mouth, just closed his jaw tight into her, teeth grinding through flesh down to bone. Pain starts running as hot as the blood that begins flowing down her arm, covering it in red like a smooth satin opera glove.

It's _now_ that he comes, his cock jumping and twitching inside of her as Kate tries to thrash away, shrieking in pain. He keeps her held firm against his body. She hears — and _feels_ — the sickening grinding of his teeth against the bone.

He drops her arm only when he is completely finished, turning to spit something into his palm. She observes, faintly, that she has two less fingers than she started with. He slides out of her ravaged cunt and steps back as though to admire the sight of her there on top of the crate, leaking his cum, physically overwhelmed and mentally shattered.

She starts sobbing, hugging her mangled hand to her chest. There's no point to her tears. She knows that. And she knows, also, that she shouldn't come back to the main question — the _only_ question — because she'll never have a real answer, but she still finds herself thinking, _Why?_

The Clown takes his time pulling himself together, but soon he's buttoned back up and looking none the worse for wear, aside from the sweat stains on his linen shirt. He comes back over to her. Kate's hands rise to cover her face, and she curls up onto her side, like an animal playing dead, but he just laughs and reaches out for her wrists to wrest them away from her face.

She sees why when she notices the switchblade in his hand.

Her scream stops as soon as it starts, the very moment it cuts across her throat. Blood begins spewing into the air, splashing all over her chest, all over the crate, splattering onto the grass and onto the cuffs of his shirt. The Clown pulls his hands up and wipes the knife off on the leg of his pants, watching her with that ever-present smile. A smile without any humor or humanity at all.

Kate can't breathe. It feels like she's drowning. Something gurgles in her throat. The blood surges up into her mouth and sprays a mist that settles back on her face like freckles.

The Clown waves the knife above her face, like he's trying to get her attention. "By the way. That punchline. It's 'You must've slept funny.'"

He pauses, as if expecting her to laugh. She thinks that she would if she could, not at the joke, but just because she knows that this whole thing is almost over. _Almost over._ Blood bubbles out from the corners of her lips. She'll be back at the campfire soon. Back among the others. Away from here, and from him. Finally.

The relief does not last, and this feeling follows her into the darkness when she hears his last words, just before it comes to claim her.

"Try it on your friends. You can tell me next time if it made 'em laugh."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Let me know what you think ❤


End file.
